


Behind the Veil, Beneath the Shroud

by ghtlovesthg



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghtlovesthg/pseuds/ghtlovesthg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's an escape artist and he's a master of disguise. Having convinced Snow and Panem during the Victory Tour, the star-crossed lovers find themselves the darlings of the Capitol. And all that entails. AU following the Victory Tour. PiP Round 3 submission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jabberjay Lovebirds

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games Trilogy. It is the property of Suzanne Collins.
> 
> Warning: this story is rated mature for adult themes, language, and sexual content.
> 
> This was originally a submission to Prompts in Panem, Round 3, Day 2. It's now cleaned up and fleshed out a bit, and I took forever cross-posting it here. The prompt was the masterpiece, "Les Amants" by Rene Magritte. I highly recommend viewing it.
> 
> This story is dedicated to allies-person. She gave me my first-ever review when this was put up on PiP. Her encouraging words meant a lot to me, and when I found out the revision was posted on her birthday, I knew this story had to be hers, if she wanted it.

* * *

It's funny how, in a world without freedom, there are more choices than you expect, sometimes more than you want. A year ago, I would have sworn there were only two outcomes to the Hunger Games: you live or you die.

As it turns out, part of the winner dies in the arena. And those that die take on new life in the victor's psyche, lurking in the unconscious, reenacting horrors and fueling endless recriminations nightly.

I would have said that only one tribute was allowed to survive. The truth is, if the Capitol viewers find you particularly stimulating, two can go home.

And I would have claimed that should you happen to make it out of the arena, you are allowed to return home and reclaim some imitation of a life, when not mentoring.

Apparently, this is not the case, if the audience really loves you. Then they want you to marry your unexpected co-victor, and they want you to live in the Capitol so they can obsessively monitor your every move.

And here I am. Living a half-life I often wish I'd lost, wed to a boy who probably shouldn't have made it out of the arena, stuck in a city that shouldn't deny victors their district return.

Prim is safe. That's what I have to focus on. The repetition of those three words gets me through every day of my life. We convinced Snow. The 'star-crossed lovers' act quelled the hot-blooded districts on the Victory Tour, sparing my family from his wrath.

Saving Prim makes my current circumstances worthwhile, but it can be hard to continually endure life in the Capitol without being able to see her. We have next to no communication with our families. My friendship with Gale is a thing of the past, abandoned for his own protection. I am essentially trapped here, and any contact between us would be hollow and forced with all that must remain unsaid. The Capitol has all but erased the life I had, and almost everyone who was in it.

I'd be all alone here, were it not for Peeta.

His affection and attentiveness can get annoying. Sometimes he is the only thing that makes being here bearable.

We have an odd relationship. We're married, but only by necessity. Snow demanded a lavish Capitol wedding upon our return from the Victory Tour. Our families really had no choice but to comply. I know that for Peeta, loving and cherishing his spouse weren't just words he parroted back to the wedding official, like me. He meant them. I'm no better than a jabberjay, reciting phrases for the Capitol's benefit.

The best I can do is uphold the rest of my vows, being faithful and honoring my partner as best I can. I won't give him children, but we do share a marital bed and I reciprocate as much physical affection as I can manage. He is my companion and friend, probably the person I trust most these days. Lately, he's been growing on me.

So when he returns to our revoltingly sumptuous penthouse suite, face white as flour, I run to him, panicked. I've had too much terrible news in my short life to assume anything but the worst.

I grab a controller from a small table in the entryway and turn on some mood music, moving the volume to its maximum setting with the drag of a finger so we can speak freely. Without fear of being overheard.

He slumps to the ground, holding my hands in his. I follow him down, crouching on my knees. We're still in the foyer, which has been designed to look like the opening of a cave. The entrance to our apartment is supposed to reference the beginning of our 'romance.' I hate it. That cave had been the one place I felt safe with Peeta during the Games, and the insipid interior designer hired by Snow had to pervert it into a tacky tribute to us. The entire suite has been featured on dozens of decor-themed shows.

"Peeta, what is it?" I say softly, trying to maintain calm in the face of his obvious distress.

A low, despairing moan wrests its way from his throat. "Katniss, I- I don't even know how to tell you." His eyes well up as they meet mine. "This isn't enough for them any more, us in our _love nest_ , being their perfect little couple."

Oh no.

"I talked to Finnick. He's...heard things."

Peeta is so upset he's visibly struggling to get his next words out. "They're- they're going to _sell-_ "

But he can't finish, breaking down with a heartbroken, defeated sob. I stare at nothing, numb and contemplative. Honestly, I'm not entirely surprised. Peeta and I became friendly with Finnick, another victor living in the Capitol, leading up to our wedding. Once we figured out exactly why he was made to stay, I had acknowledged the very real possibility of our being used for the same purpose. I'd been surprised they hadn't devised a way to capitalize off our wedding night. I guess it was finally happening.

Besides the death of one of my few loved ones, losing my autonomy to become Snow's puppet was the worst thing I could imagine. But I was a victor who lived constantly under the president's watchful eyes. My free will had been forfeit for some time. I was experienced in living a life with varying degrees of subjugation and horror.

"Maybe we'll be...sold together." I felt dirty just saying it, but had to finish my thought. "If you're there with me, I think I could get through it."

Peeta looks more broken and hopeless than ever. He's silent for a long time, but I know he's working up to a response. "It's not the both of us they want." His eyes settle on his left leg in explanation. "Only you."

Apparently, in the Capitol, body modifications are desirable only when completely unnecessary. Despair and relief surge within me. Peeta has been saved. I've always blamed myself for the loss of his leg, but it's his missing limb that will keep him whole and safe.

But now I'm in this alone. I don't want to be selfish. I'm beyond relieved that he's gotten out of this, but we've always faced the Capitol's horrors side by side. That is the one thing I have learned to count on. Peeta slides his hand up my cheek and into the wispy hair at my temple, gently drawing my face closer, before he leans his forehead against mine. "I'm so sorry," he rasps.

He has nothing to apologize for. The fault does not lie with the sweet baker's son turned Capitol puppet. Peeta can't save me from this. As grateful as I am that he won't have to endure it with me, I still feel abandoned. I pull my hands from his and turn to the side.

When he tries to reach for me again a moment later, I shrink away. I have no words for anyone, and I can sense myself withdrawing further. Eventually, Peeta takes the hint and gives me space.

 

* * *

 

 We drift past each other like spirits for the next few days, neither of us really there, just a poor imitation of life, remnants of people who once existed.

Peeta doesn't seem to know how to talk to me anymore, even though words have always been his medium. He couldn't suffer through this with me even if he wanted to, and I can't muster up the energy to do anything in my free time but huddle under the covers or in closets, anywhere dark enough to shut the world out. The few times I emerge from my latest hiding place to nibble the food he's left for me, Peeta is always staring out at nothing contemplatively.

I know he's trying to think of a way out, but I have no illusions. If there was one, someone would have found it by now. At night, he lies beside me and I can practically hear his mind racing through possibilities. I want to comfort him, put him at ease, but I can't bear to let him touch me. Physical intimacy was one of the few things I enjoyed in our Capitol-crafted lives, but that has been tainted beyond salvaging now by Snow's plans.

Eventually, Peeta coaxes me back to the land of the living. I think he misses me, because he makes my favorite meal, lamb stew, and bakes me cheese buns. While he could obtain the meal in a matter of seconds with our instant meal creator, the likes of which I'd first seen in my room at the Training Center, he's spent hours in the kitchen preparing the food.

Peeta refuses to use the device. He says he doesn't want to forget the effort requisite to real living, that the easy existence in the Capitol is a lie. Everything has its price, and once we forget that, we become like them, he says. Cooking is a connection to his old life and for him, only a meal worth the effort of making is worth eating. I admire Peeta for his principles and his restraint. I agree with him in theory, but we both have a different relationship with food.

When I'm reminded of hollow days, he doesn't judge me when he walks into a room littered with half-eaten prepared dishes, both simple and extravagant. Instead, he sits by me and soothes me as I burrow into his embrace in shame, and talk about how much I miss being with Prim in Twelve, even with the ever present hunger, or how I miss providing food from the woods to the people I cared for. He wraps everything up so it won't go to waste, and if he notices that there are always more bread-centric dishes than anything else, he doesn't say anything.

When I shuffle into the dining room in my week-old clothes, he looks a wreck, but hopeful at the sight of me. Dinner is spent in silence, but somehow it's not as distant. I make it halfway through the meal before getting caught up staring at a butter knife in my hand. I'm almost contemplating protesting Snow's cavalier use of my body. Is death preferable to what awaits me? I have faced death, and even embraced it on my own terms. I'm no stranger to attempted suicide, as the 74th's finale attests.

The only reason I'm not seriously considering it is Prim. I still have to protect her. To do that, I need to be alive and obedient – not rebellious in death. Snow would undoubtedly retaliate. And Peeta, what of him? Would he be able to carry on without me? I try to tell myself he would, but I can too easily imagine him falling apart or becoming too reckless in his dealings with the Capitol as a form of self-destruction. They would punish him. Terribly.

I'm broken from my reverie as Peeta's large fingers, warm against my cooler digits, gently pry the dull knife from my hands. He carefully places it on the table, then brings his palms up to cup my jaw line, raising my face to his. There is panic and fear in his eyes, and I know he can read the consideration on my face.

"Would you Katniss?" He whispers desolately. "If you could, would you?"

I stare back at him silently, bleakly, unable to give him any answer but the one he fears. He drops to his knees at the side of my chair, leaning down to throw his arms around my midsection and bury his face in the fabric of my clothes. I cradle his head with my arms and drag my fingers through his mop of curls as we sit there for endless moments.

 

* * *

 

We've been spared mentoring this year, and I don't know if it's because the Capitol still considers us to be in a sort of honeymoon stage, or if they just want access to us at all times. If we mentored, we'd be expected to be in Twelve for the Reaping, on the train with the tributes, and at the Game Headquarters each day, only emerging at night to get sponsors at these parties. Whatever the reason, I was grateful until we heard of Snow's upcoming use for me.

Finnick mentors, even though he spends most of his time in the Capitol, but I get the impression that there are few suitable candidates in Four. Twelve still has Haymitch, and with our victory in the 74th Games, he's seen as a capable, successful mentor. Funny, considering the state Peeta, Effie and I saw him in on that train ride to the Capitol not so long ago. The star-crossed lovers are expected to make an appearance tonight though, and I'm not supposed to have any inkling of my future...debut. Finnick surmises that it will be after this year's Victory Tour, when those in the Capitol start searching for diversions until the next Games.

Instead of rallying around me and staying by my side, Peeta throws himself into socializing, flitting from acquaintance to acquaintance at every function we attend. I try to be understanding, but I honestly feel betrayed. He knows I despise Capitol crowds and their phony small-talk. There's only so much time left before I'm turned into a piece of entertainment. I feel like I won't be able to relate to anyone soon, and Peeta's just wasting the little time we have.

As we laid in bed the night he made my stew, he swore an oath in harsh, hushed tones to find a way to get me out of this. I told him that he was in denial and would only be grasping at straws. He can't accept the truth of what's happening, so he's putting all his energy and efforts into pipe dreams. I've been avoiding him in our suite out of irritation that he can't face the truth, but I guess I still hoped he'd reach out to me, as my boy with the bread always has during the hardest moments of my life.

I think his abandonment at this party is bad until he actually starts dragging people over to meet me.

"Katniss, you remember Eugenia, from my prep team? She's worked wonders on this year's male tribute from Twelve."

I tamp down on my lips, successfully preventing a full-fledged scowl, and the twitch of my mouth is taken as an affirmative.

"I just had to show you her exquisite bone structure." Exquisite is one word for it. Another would be repugnant. She obviously had extensive cosmetic grafting, as the bones beneath the skin on her face, back and limbs bulge out in a way meant to resemble the carapace of an insect or the crustaceans I've sampled at some of these parties.

Eugenia fawns at Peeta's flattery. I try to muster a half-hearted smile of appreciation, but I think I fail.

"Her sister was going to have a procedure done to match, but it didn't take," Peeta adds. Eugenia glances at him, surprised. Peeta's banter is usually upbeat and complimentary. For many, he's the sort of person they trust instantly, and people open up to him because of it. I've never seen him use information clearly imparted in confidence in a public conversation before. I'm a little surprised as well; it's unlike him.

"I'm so sorry" I murmur, wondering exactly what the phrase "didn't take" entailed. Eugenia's obviously recovered from Peeta's revelation, because I can see the excitement in her eyes at the prospect of talking to the Girl on Fire.

"Thank you! She's all right now. It's hard for her, with the sequestration, but it's for the best. They've been talking about moving her to an outlier, where she can find meaningful work and assimilate to her new life."

She rolls her eyes as she continues. "The idea of living with district natives terrifies her, but I'm sure she'll manage. I told her you two were great, and you're from the most uncultured district of all!"

My next imitation of a smile is more snarl than anything, and Eugenia luckily moves on. I raise my eyebrow at Peeta, still too angry and hurt to actually say anything to him. "I'll talk to you later" he mumbles in response, and sinks back into the crowd.

By the end of the night, I'm fuming. He never reappeared to let me in on his interest in my meeting Eugenia, and he spent the rest of the night hanging on Johanna Mason's every word, a fact she was only too pleased to flaunt in front of half the room. The District Seven mentor has taken a liking to my husband, and I can't imagine a stranger combination of personalities if I tried. Not even Peeta and I, and I'll readily admit our dispositions may not look compatible at first glance.

But they are. So much so that I often wonder to what extent my feelings for Peeta have blossomed. Every time I manage to uncover them, they've burrowed deeper than I expected and entwined themselves further around him than I had imagined possible. Which may have something to do with how uncomfortable it makes me to see him spending time with another petite, dark-haired, abrasive female.

When we finally start home I'm more than anxious to go. The party was celebrating the completion of this year's Games, and since it's a Quell year, the festivities are an all-out bacchanalia. It makes me uncomfortable to be around the past victors in town for mentoring. I get the impression that some of them believe that by 'electing' to stay in the Capitol, Peeta and I are condoning its practices. How could they assume we have a choice?

The only way we can escape the party is by waiting long enough for many of the attendees to get sloppily drunk, then pretending Peeta's imbibed far too much and needs to go home and sleep it off. He's getting a reputation as a lush, but we both think it's well worth it. My acting isn't good enough to feign poor coordination or drunken gregariousness by any stretch, and I'd certainly never let my guard down enough to actually imbibe here.

But Peeta's a natural actor. He just lays his flattery and good humor on thick and everyone eats it up. People here are still in awe of me for whatever misguided reason, but they genuinely love him. They'll roll their eyes and make a Haymitch joke, give Peeta a slap on his back, then send us their tried-and-true hangover cures via Avox messenger the next day.

Tonight though, we've left later than we normally would, and I know it's because Peeta was in the company of Johanna. When we get home, he tries to help me out of my coat, but I angrily shrug him off and stalk to our room, leaving him holding my outerwear in the ridiculous foyer.

I just want to shower and sleep, but after several contortions of my arms, I realize I can't remove Cinna's latest concoction by myself. We refuse to have an Avox slave for obvious reasons, ones that would seem ridiculous to most others in this city, so I have to wait for Peeta. I feel like a fool, but to his credit, when Peeta joins me he helps unfasten my dress wordlessly.

After my shower, I crawl into bed on my side, relishing the smooth cool sheets against my warmed skin. After days of unwashed listlessness, then being caked in makeup and beauty products for the party, cleanliness is soothing. Peeta, who has kept his distance lately, sidles up to me before I can move away.

"Sing me a lullaby."

I furrow my brow. As much as Peeta purportedly loves my voice, he's never asked, let alone ordered, that I sing. Before I can form a reply, he repeats himself.

"Sing me a lullaby." Normally, I'd refuse simply on the grounds that it was commanded of me, not requested, but there is an urgency in his voice that is perplexing. I can't sing Prim's lullaby, it reminds me too much of a sister I haven't seen in ages and the last terrible moments of Rue's life. So instead, I sing the Valley Song.

" _You have led me- "_

I've barely begun before he demands, "Louder." Puzzled, I comply.

" _You have led me to the sadness  
I have carried this pain,"_

As soon as I begin, Peeta lowers his mouth to my ear and starts whispering. I shiver at his proximity, his lips and eyelashes tease my skin with the promise of blissful sensation. When his words register, I finally realize what he was after. He wants to tell me something without any bugs picking it up, but chose to give me space in the bathroom. I'm thankful. I've never felt more vulnerable, knowing what's in store for me.

" _On a back bruised, nearly broken  
I'm crying out to you"_

"With every day that passes, I can see the hope going out of your eyes. If you're made to do this, the emptiness will be filled with fear and desolation until you're completely gone. I won't let your fire die, and I won't let them change you. I'd do _anything_ to save you, I'd die at a moment's notice to set you free, but any sacrifice I could make means nothing to them."

My breath catches at the steel in his voice, but I only falter for an instant before continuing on.

" _But I fear you aren't listening  
Because there are no words"_

"I've wracked my mind for a way to get you out of this without repercussions for you or Prim. A better man than I would have a decent solution, but time's running out and there's only one way I can think of."

I almost stop singing. He has an idea?

" _Just the stillness and hunger  
For a faith that assures"_

"We can make you safe the way _I'm_ safe. You have to make them not want you. The people here have an aversion to imperfection. They're not used to it, they don't want to be reminded it exists. For them, it's like a disease. You have to become imperfect in their eyes."

" _While we wait for rescue  
With our eyes tightly shut"_

"It would have to be pretty significant, just to be sure. There's a lot they can fix here. And you'd only have one chance, because whatever it is, it has to look like an accident or Snow will blame you. We're in his good graces since the Tour, and we've been playing his game by all the rules. He might be cocky enough to believe he's actually broken us down to biddable toys, and it truly is an accident."

Theoretically I suppose it could work. But how would such a thing be accomplished? My voice stays strong despite my uncertainty.

" _Face to the ground using our hands  
To cover the fatal cut"_

"During the Victory Tour, my prep team gossiped with Eugenia about her sister's failed remake. The surgery went wrong somehow, and she was permanently disfigured. The damages were too serious to fix, even with Capitol technology. Instead of receiving sympathy and support, she was exiled to a facility for 'aesthetically impaired' citizens. According to Eugenia, a comfortable life is provided and communication outside of the facility is allowed, but there's a lot of solitude and the residents are practically barred from returning to the Capitol. Apparently a lot of them don't handle it well."

I can see how ex-Capitol citizens might have a problem being banished from their glittering city because they're deemed eyesores. I guess the never-ending cruelty here should surprise me, but it doesn't. The only surprise is how many forms it can take.

" _And though the pain is an ocean  
Tossing us around, around, around"_

What Peeta is suggesting is shocking and drastic. I know he values my safety and my well-being more than anything else, and that's why he's proposing it. I don't want to do myself any bodily harm, not after fighting for my life in the Games, but I know I can't make it through this with my mind and soul intact. Peeta's noticed it too. I can feel myself slipping away and I haven't even become a plaything yet.

" _You have calmed greater waters  
Higher mountains have come down"_

Our conversation on the rooftop the night before the countdown come back to me. He was right, wise even then. I understand his words as I haven't before and echo them in my own sentiments. I want to still be me. Snow tried to make me nothing more than an animal in the Games, and now he's trying to degrade me into existing only as an object. I won't willingly submit my body to the Capitol's control.

" _I will sing of Your mercy_  
 _That leads me through valleys of sorrow_  
 _To rivers of joy."_

Peeta has once again given me hope. I pull away and sit up, looking down at his worried face in the dim light. He's not sure he's done the right thing, suggesting I damage myself in some way. I lean down and kiss his brow tenderly, the first voluntary contact I've initiated in days. I stay sitting upright, considering and discarding a dozen awful possibilities After hours of lying beside me, awake and keeping silent counsel, Peeta drifts into unconsciousness. I remain seated, staring not at the room around me, but gazing instead into possible futures. I have a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The song I used for the Valley Song is called, quite simply, Valley Song. I listened to the version by Jars of Clay. It seemed to fit adequately.


	2. Blueprints

* * *

The next morning, when I feel Peeta stir beside me, I've made my choice. He moves to sit up and I reach for his leg. He watches as I gently touch his prosthesis, then move my hand to my face, indicating my decision to him. His eyes flit back and forth between mine as he tries to gauge whether he's correctly discerned my meaning.

Impatient, I twine my fingers in his and pull him to the bathroom. Every faucet goes on full blast and I decide not to waste the water. Hope has transformed me, I want to feel my skin against Peeta's, have him hold me. I try to be practical, yanking off our sleep clothes, but the best I manage is removing our shirts before I lose patience and yank Peeta into the luxurious, walk-in shower with me, anxious to talk with him.

There's a built-in bench for Peeta's convenience, and I push him down on it, settling on his boxer-clad lap before cuddling up to him. His arms go instantly around me and his expression is surprised and still a bit drowsy. We must look ridiculous, wrapped up together, half-clothed, one of us barely awake as water cascades down on us, but I merely grin at the position I've gotten us into. We absolutely cannot be heard and the most reliable place is as close to the rushing water as possible. And I've truly missed our intimacy.

I pull him closer to me under the spray, nuzzling my face further against his shoulder. He'd been searching for a way to save me when I'd thought he was ignoring me and in denial about my plight. Would I ever stop misjudging him, stop owing him?

"I've been thinking about this all night. I know it's not a decision to be taken lightly, but given the choice, I can't lose a limb." I kiss him hurriedly, mindful of what he's given up for me. "In my heart I'm a hunter and I need to be able to believe that I'll run and shoot my bow and climb trees again." Peeta nods, and I wonder what sustaining an injury like Chaff's, another mentor we've met, would have done to him. Peeta can still paint and bake, integral parts of his life that weren't completely disrupted when he lost his leg. Artistic gifts like Peeta's should never be lost. His ability to pursue them is one of the few benefits of living here.

"I have to make myself ugly to them. I think it will be the most effective deterrent. I have to change my face somehow. That way, I won't lose anything I can't survive without."

Peeta looks at me and nods his agreement. "I thought that would be your choice. I've been talking to Johanna just in case. She...makes a hobby of knowing all the ways Snow torments his enemies. She says she's keeping score. Apparently, Snow is all about hitting where it hurts the most, maximizing mental and emotional trauma."

After my dealings with him before our successful Victory Tour, his threats to my loved ones, I know Johanna's summation hit the mark.

"When someone in the Capitol becomes a nuisance, sometimes he'll taint the chemicals used in their next remake. When the procedure is finished, their faces are frozen into grotesque caricatures of what they used to be. Snow barely has to lift a finger, and the person is alienated and exiled by their own friends and family, who are slaves to the Capitol superficiality. Image is everything here. Appearance is taken so seriously that it's become one of Snow's most effective forms of torment."

"Its popularity as a form of punishment has apparently inspired similar instances of retaliation. There've been rumors of it finding its way even into the remake rooms of Snow's supporters. According to Finnick, it happened to one of his clients. Even though the man was one of Snow's faithful, he was shipped off too. Sent away to the same sort of facility as Eugenia's sister."

I blink up at him owlishly. "Are you saying that there are Capitol citizens who retaliate against Snow?" Shock and nervous excitement bubble up inside me.

"I know it's hard to believe," Peeta whispered. "But Finnick and Johanna both hinted at it separately. They could even be involved in whatever small resistance exists. I mean, look at the information they have."

We both sit there for a while, contemplating a reality in which the oppression and tyranny in our lives had been overthrown.

"I wish I could be a part of it, contribute to a better future somehow."

Hearing this, I think of his bravery and selflessness, his captivating words and altruistic ways. I know Panem and I've grown to know Peeta. He would give too much of himself, risk his safety for everyone else's. Peeta would weave a landscape of freedom and opportunity with his words. The power of his oration would briefly wrap his audience in the contentment and well-being of that world, and they would not be able to give it up. He would show people beauty, and Snow would see and stamp it out. Peeta would be punished, broken if possible. I hug him closer. He's been hurt too much already.

"No."

Peeta raises his eyebrows and chuckles incredulously at me.

"Then you forbid it?"

I nod into his neck. "I forbid it."

Peeta toys with my wet hair a little longer, and I can tell he's trying to fight off despondency. If our plan succeeds, we'll be separated, likely forever. There's no way I'll be allowed to stay, and I sincerely doubt that he'll be able to accompany me. The likelihood of both of us having remakes with tampered chemicals is too small to risk trying for.

I relish the friction of his skin against mine and the sensation of water running over the rest of my body. Nuzzling my nose into the wet curls at the side of his head, I press lazy kisses along the shell of his ear, my lips gently kneading at the supple flesh of his earlobe. I've been so lucky to have him. Lucky beyond measure. I hug him closer to me as a fierceness of emotion fills me at the thought of leaving him.

He tells me he'll try to arrange a meeting between Johanna and I, so she can give me some specifics. I tremble in his arms, thinking of the path I've selected. Peeta clutches me to him desperately, and I'm only too happy to cling to his strength. I remind myself that terrifying as it is, the road ahead is of my own choosing. That's more than most souls can say.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few days, I go on several shopping sprees at the most prominent boutiques in the Capitol. As usual, as soon as I'm in public I'm followed and hounded for comments. I gush about how I'm ready for something new, how I want to reinvent myself and come out of my shell with a whole new look and wardrobe to match, now that I've grown more comfortable here. It's almost painful to prattle on about myself to these people, especially when the sentiments are completely vapid and false. But, like my behavior ever since Snow threatened us, it's all a carefully crafted act.

Each day, I begin to panic a little more at the thought of leaving Peeta behind. I guess I didn't realize how integral he's become to my mental wellbeing. Knowing he's safe has been one of my primary concerns for so long now, I can't imagine not being near him and having the reassurance that he's all right. Our existences have become so entangled, each of us depending on the other for survival in the games, on the tour, and in the Capitol, I'm starting to worry that it will feel like a piece of me has been lost.

I can't turn back, though, and I know he understands and encourages my decision.

We make several more appearances at various galas, banquets and parties. The pointless causes for celebration are limitless here. At one such event, thrown in recognition of the biggest sponsors in this year's Games, I'm attempting small talk with an utterly bland couple who nevertheless sponsored me in the 74th. They also sponsored this year's unfortunate District Twelve tributes, which I appreciate, but have difficulty expressing in terms that have meaning for them. To them, it was a gamble for recognition and bragging rights. A high-risk investment. To Twelve's unfortunate tributes, it was a last meal, a warm blanket, or relief from pain near the end. Peeta is luckily at my side to smooth over all my gaffes and fill any awkward silences.

An arm drapes itself languidly over my shoulder and I turn to see Johanna Mason at my side. Like Peeta and I, along with all the other victors present, she is wearing a haute couture interpretation of her respective Game's arena outfit, in keeping with the theme of the party and Snow's request. She's flushed and probably a little drunk, flashing everyone a self-satisfied, coy smirk. She slants her eyes back in my direction mischievously.

"We never talk, Mrs. Mellark. It's time to bury the hatchet and stop dancing around my friendship with your husband. _Actual_ dancing is a lot more fun."

With that, Johanna grabs my hand and drags me away toward the dance floor. I'm so surprised I don't react until we're surrounded by sweaty bodies in motion.

"I bet you're lousy at this," she says snidely before proceeding to sway her body provocatively to the music. The only dancing I've done in the Capitol were couples' dances with Peeta. They were always slow and shuffling and had nothing to do with moving along to the rhythm of the music. I'm beyond lost here.

Johanna snorts when her prediction is confirmed. "You're going to have to do better than that, brainless," she hisses when her body sways close to mine.

I get angrier by the moment. I can dance in the folk style traditional to District Twelve, and from what I've seen, it requires a lot more grace and coordination than the sloppy gyrations popular in the Capitol. Unfortunately, those lively steps would be completely out of place here. My only hope is mimicking Johanna's movements, and despite her exaggerated eye roll, I think I manage as well as can be expected.

Soon though, her dancing becomes even more suggestive and it seems directed toward me. I flush, confused and flustered. She loops her arms around my neck and pulls me closer, forcing me to sway along with her. The music is blaring and I feel overwhelmed and uncomfortable. She's making a spectacle. Glancing around, I can see that the party attendees are watching the scene ravenously. I'm angry that she's forcing me to take part in titillating Capitol pigs. Until I realize Johanna has begun talking rapidly at a very low volume. And not about dancing. Straight to the point, she's giving me a crash course in how to change my appearance forever. I lean closer to catch the rest of what she's been saying.

"-fools can't stand a little pain. Even the smallest remakes involve extremely potent injections that numb the target area. Extensive procedures use massive amounts of Polacaine, even if the patient is being put under. It wears off, but if you mix it with the right chemical, Petrilinum, it can end up causing spasms and permanent paralysis in the affected area. Not very pleasant, I'd imagine." She raises her eyebrow at me challengingly.

"I'm no stranger to discomfort." I hope Johanna heard me over the pounding song. I'm not going to back out of this.

"Usually the Polacaine and Petrilinum toxin are mixed before the procedure, so it's the application of the numbing agent that actually causes the damage. That won't be the case, because no one is actually plotting against you. You're going to have to inject yourself with Petrilinum before you go into the remake room," Johanna informs me. "The Petrox alone won't be noticeable until the doctor adds the Polacaine, as long as you don't attempt much facial movement beforehand. But you never show any emotion anyway, so that's business as usual. Oh yeah, and it's going to fucking hurt. As long as they think it was mixed in with the Polacaine before you got there, you're off the hook."

"Is there really a resistance?" I can't help asking, hopeful.

"Think I'd tell you, brainless? All you need to know is some people don't think it'd be a bad thing if the star-crossed lovers stopped enthralling everyone with their sickening sap story," she sneers. "Then everyone might notice the world they live in is a stinking pile of shit. Snow wouldn't look so in control if his key player, The Girl who Burned Out, was ousted either. Maybe people would feel bold enough to do something.

"And it just so happens that one of the few who feel this way is a doctor, with access to all sorts of chemicals," she concludes smugly.

Johanna abruptly swings around and starts swiveling her hips against my backside in a lewd grinding motion. Before I can move, she grabs my braid tightly and yanks my head back and to the side. Then she latches onto my lips in the most unexpected move yet. Before I can squirm away, I feel her fingers slipping below my waistband in the back. I feel something cool and cylindrical placed carefully between the fabric and my skin.

I'm pretty sure I can guess what it is. She lets go of my hair and ends the kiss. "You've got all the sensuality of a dead slug. I hope you do a better job with Baker Boy. And despite your pathetic performance, I guarantee you the only thing anyone saw in that little exchange was the kiss," she whispers with a wink.

Before she moves away, I grab her arm, holding her in place. Although I dislike her, I want to know her opinion. "What would you do?"

"You mean what _did_ I do. Like you, I decided I couldn't lose so much of myself to Snow. Unlike you, I underestimated him and how far he'll go to prove a point. Now there's no one left I love."

"If someone had come along and presented me with a cunning escape plan, would I have sacrificed my pride to keep my dignity? Accepted stares and solitude and repulsion to save myself and my family?" In her eyes, I can see intense pain, and anger at having it revealed. "I hope so."

Johanna steps away and disappears into the mass of bodies writhing to the obnoxious music. Careful not to dislodge the object from where it rests, gripped by the small bit of elastic along the waistband of my outfit, I make my way back to Peeta. We walk out of the party hand in hand, grip firm with resolve.

The next morning, I schedule a consultation with Panem's preeminent remake specialist.

 

* * *

 

 I'm so nervous my hands are shaking, but Peeta, considerate as ever, wraps his own around mine to offer comfort and hide my tremors. I brainstormed for days about the most outrageously invasive remake that would make sense for Katniss Mellark, darling of the Capitol. I take a deep breath, and explain to the creature sitting across from us.

"I've been dying to show my love for Peeta on the outside. We're the star-crossed lovers and I want to look the part. I need diamond implants, so when people see me, I sparkle like the starry night sky."

The doctor, whose skin shines with such a high-gloss finish that it looks like he's been encased in glass, proceeds to discuss the arrangement and exact number of oversized diamonds I want surgically inserted into the skin of my face. This has to seem legitimate, so I ask several questions about the recovery time and maintenance of the finished product, which should never come to pass, luckily. After he suggests a number, I even pretend to be disappointed that more shiny rocks can't be crammed onto my face. To make it up to me, the specialist promises to schedule my remake ahead of several others, since I'm such a prestigious client.

That night, I stare into the mirror. I've never had the resources, time, or inclination to fret over beautifying myself. Even now, with the technology of the Capitol at my disposal, I care nothing for such pursuits. I don't dislike my looks. They're passable. I know I'm no great beauty, but I wouldn't want the attention that would garner, anyways. Peeta has always seemed overly pleased with my appearance, though I suspect he's prone to exaggeration in that department. He's certainly found more enjoyment in my countenance than I have, though the features of my face have served their purpose adequately-I could see far enough to shoot, use scent as an aid in tracking fauna and identifying flora, and rely on my hearing enough to keep my family alive.

But my face is my own, and it's familiar, and I'm attached to it. My looks aren't essential to my survival, they're not even essential to who I am. I know this, I've chosen, and I have no doubts, but I'm not sure that I've come to terms with losing the most personal, identifiable part of me yet. This is the face I was born with, the one my parents gave me to get me through life. And with that thought, I can see my mother's sharp cheekbones, a nose shaped like Prim's, and _oh_ , my father's skin, his eyes, and his smile...

Why did I have to see myself this way, when my choice is already made? How can I give the reminder of him up? How can I afford not to?

I fly out of the bathroom and into Peeta's arms. He's reclining on the bed, reading some medical journal about remake side effects. He looks at me, startled, as I break away.

"Draw me."

Understanding and sadness fill his eyes. "Alright," he acquiesces softly.

It's almost unbearable, sitting still for Peeta while my thoughts ensnare me. Like how I'm the only one in the family who looked like my father. How I'll never have children, so the only hope of an Everdeen resembling him lies with Prim. How lovely it is that Peeta thinks I'm beautiful.

Why did that never please me, never matter to me before, even a little? I focus on him, diligently sketching across the room. He's the one that imagined this possibility in the first place, but how does he feel about it? I'm not sure I'm brave enough to ask him.

I've been staring at him for a while when he gently places his sketchbook down in his lap. "Finished."

"Is it right?"

A corner of his mouth tilts up, as if I've asked something naïve. "Katniss, I've drawn you so many times…" He looks down, his cheeks tinted pink as he thinks better of continuing whatever he was going to say. He looks up at me again, eyes sparkling. "It's right," he affirms with assurance.

I'm glad. But I don't want to see it. Maybe someday, if I need reminding, he could send it to me and it will be a familiar surprise. We're both quiet, sitting there together. The silence between us has returned as we get closer to my remake. I don't think either of us knows how to breach the topic of our upcoming separation. I doubt Peeta will handle it well, but then neither will I.

"Just- don't forget, okay? How I am now." I'm not sure where these words are coming from, but I can't stop them.

Peeta lets out a disbelieving breath.

"As if I could."

"What if I do? What if I forget my own face? I know how I look now, but the way I looked as a child is only vaguely familiar. What if it's like that?" I end on a whisper. I'm mortified to feel my lip trembling. The fear of what's ahead seems to be hitting me all at once.

Peeta sets the sketchbook aside and approaches, sinking down on the bed next to me.

"You know I've been watching you from afar since we were five. And you're right, everyone's face is constantly, subtly changing. But you're too worried about changes in what others see. Enjoy your face the way _you_ experience it."

And Peeta shows me how, as he gently draws a finger over the furrows in my worried brow, smoothing the lines there. His fingers trail along the sides of my temple, soothing me. As they graze the edges of my cheeks, I can't help but smile. The sensation of his touch on my face is singing through my skin, and when he sweeps his thumb up the curve of my chin to my lips, barely grazing the outline of each, I can't breathe for the tingling bliss shooting through me. His index finger playfully slides down the length of my nose and dips along the indentation in my upper lip before tracing the arch of each eyebrow.

Languidly, my eyes close and I lean back on the bed, my head finding one of our pillows. Peeta follows me down, leaning over me. He gently caresses across my closed eyelids, his fingertips trailing in a whisper across the sensitive skin, and my body is flooded with calm contentment. As my mind settles and I drift in the limbo right before slumber, he draws back to plant a small kiss on each earlobe. Clicking off the light and nestling at my side, his hand entwines with mine over my midsection. Peeta's warm breath stirring the loose hairs at my neck is the last thing I notice as we both fall asleep.


	3. A Shot in the Dark

* * *

'Reality' television of all varieties is an obsession here, and I've been watching every makeover show, relevant medical docudrama and age-defying infomercial for days, paying careful attention to where all the 'miracle serums' get injected when work is being done to someone's face.

I've examined Johanna's gift. It's perfect. A pre-filled syringe with what I can only assume is Petrilinum toxin. I don't trust Johanna, but Peeta does, and that's enough for me. I drop it back in its hiding place among the arrows resting in a replica quiver from my Games. It was presented to me as a gift from Snow at our wedding. I find perverse pleasure that my newest weapon against the Capitol resides with the old ones, in a vessel commissioned by the President himself. Turning out the lights, I return to the darkened bedroom, joining Peeta in our bed.

His hand immediately seeks out mine. Tonight may be our last together, if I get sent away immediately after the botched procedure. He made me my favorite meal again. It was meant to be sweet and loving, but it felt like a last meal before execution at dawn. Trying to shake off my nerves, I turn to Peeta, just making out his features in the dimness. He is looking at me with tears in his eyes. I know I can't bear whatever he's about to say.

I surge against him, pressing my lips to his. We haven't had sex since before the revelation of Snow's plans. I became uncomfortable with it as I viewed my body as something I no longer possessed. Our embrace in the shower was a step toward taking physical comfort in each other, but this is the first time I feel ready to enjoy our bodies together again. I grab one of the contraceptives Cinna has smuggled me. He's intuitive enough to discern my fear about children born to victors, children Snow anticipates, and sneaks them into hidden pockets on the clothes he designs for me. I tug impatiently at the waistband of Peeta's boxers, trying to convey my eagerness.

We quickly disrobe, then shift and settle into a familiar entanglement, wrapped up in each other's arms. I sigh, happy to feel him against me so completely. There is so little cause for joy in this city, so much fear and artifice in every aspect of life, that something as simple, natural, and pleasurable as this becomes an essential escape. When Peeta and I are bared before each other, there is no room between us for facades and deceptions. We can finally be ourselves: two scared, lost tributes, who only have each other. I feel at home and most like myself here when in his embrace.

He peppers my face with ardent, frenzied kisses and I weave my hands through his curls, tugging on them as I try to catch his lips long enough to return the favor. Finally, he relents his fervent assault and our mouths meet. We both pour all our heartache and goodbye into this single, blistering kiss, and I have to break away in breathless panic as the finality of this coupling sets in. My hands scrabble over to the bedside as I turn on the light. We're both flushed and panting, and the sudden brightness hurts my eyes.

"Look at me, Peeta. Memorize me." I hardly recognize this desperate, demanding side of me, but his gaze rakes down all over my body as he gladly studies me. I stare back at him, committing every plane and patch of flushed, pink skin to memory. I draw his face back up to mine. He's not spending enough time there.

Peeta gives a pained moan. "Katniss, I love you no matter how you look. Nothing can change that. Please remember it," he beseeches.

I pull him back down to me, hugging him fiercely. I'll miss his comfort, his warmth, his goodness. I'll miss his words, wonderful and so necessary to balance the lack of my own. I have to remember each one, so I can pull them around me, shielding myself with his affection when I'm alone in the future.

I clutch the muscles of his shoulders frantically as he slowly enters me, stretching my walls around him as he pushes further inside. We rock and pulse against each other rapturously, our rhythm quickly increasing as the intensity of the sensations escalates.

Perspiration stamps the expanses of skin where our bodies and limbs meet, and Peeta's hands tremble as he maps the contours of my shape. There is so much coursing through me at this moment. I'm panting and shaking and I can feel how very close he is in the way he surges into me.

My eyes close in bliss each time his blunt tip nudges something crucial inside me. My fingernails skitter along his shoulders and back as I take him in, this man laboring over me for our mutual euphoria. He meets my gaze and holds it, pupils glinting with emotion.

My heavy-lidded eyes drop from his to where we're joined, and decadent pleasure runs through me at the sight. Dragging the bottom of my feet across the back of his calves, flesh and artificial, I encourage him to let go. I'm reaching a precipice of my own, as well.

After a few moments, he grunts and shudders into me, prompting a gasp of my own as my toes curl in delight. My hands quickly snake down his torso as I pull him further into me, my thighs gripping his sides tightly as I take as much of him as I can.

My head drops back to the bed as my torso arches up to his own, my nipples brushing the hairs on his chest. We surge together, convulsing in ecstasy for long minutes before collapsing to the damp sheets, our hearts still racing and lungs laboring for air.

In the aftermath, we lie side by side on the bed, in silent contemplation of our coming separation. I can't afford to acknowledge that it is last time we'll be together this way.

Drawing the sheets and covers around us, extinguishing the light, we cling together in our remaining wakeful moments and through the sleep thereafter.

 

* * *

 

 I wince as I position the syringe at my right temple, bracing myself for the unwelcome feeling of the needle sliding into my skin. I depress the plunger as far as it will go, and once again feel the uncomfortable pressure-pain of the toxin being forced into my face. That's the last of it. I glance over the areas where I've injected the Petrox. The needle sites on the insides of my cheeks certainly wouldn't be noticed, and the syringe blessedly has one of the thinnest needles I've seen. The mild irritation at the other injection sites shouldn't be noticeable by the time I'm at the remake center. I thank my father for my dark coloring. Pale skin like Peeta's would emphasize the tiniest irritation for ages. I look down at the emptied object in my hand. It's me and the contents of this syringe against the Capitol.

On the way to the medical complex, Peeta's hand holds mine in a vice. It's almost uncomfortable, but I find myself thankful for the strong grip. I feel anchored by him. The circumstances seem so surreal - as if only yesterday I was hunting in my woods back in Twelve. Today, I'm in the Capitol, next to my husband as we're driven in a luxury vehicle, hurrying to keep the appointment to ruin my face. If he wasn't clutching my hand in his, I think I'd float away in the unreality of it all.

The next thing I know, we're standing by the doors where I'll enter to be prepped for my remake. I try not to let any emotion show, as my facial muscles feel like they're responding sluggishly, but it's hard to suppress everything I'm feeling at our parting. There are nurses and doctors all around, and this can't look like more than just a few hours' goodbye.

Peeta's lips quirk into the saddest smile I've seen, and he runs his thumb along the bottom of my braid before giving it a little tug. He smoothes a piece of hair behind my ear before pressing a cool kiss to my smooth forehead. I feel a single warm drop splash onto the side of my nose, and he quickly brushes it away with his thumb before pulling back, blinking to contain the rest that gather unshed along his long, pale, lower lashes.

I press a soft kiss to his mouth, trying to convey the tenderness of my feelings for him. His lips feel heated, and when I move away from him, I can see he's struggling to control his breathing, fighting the emotion welling up in his chest.

As a nurse leads me away, he blows me a kiss. But when he moves his hand from his face, blowing the kiss in my direction, I can see that only three fingers are extended, his pinky finger held back by his thumb.

It's not meant as a funerary gesture, it's meant as a secret goodbye in a language from our home, from before we had pretend lives. It's also an allusion to the first stirrings of protest against the Capitol at our Reaping. Peeta's reminding me that we're continuing what was started in a small way here, with our own private rebellion. I return his goodbye with a similar kiss and a three-fingered salute. His reminder fills me with the courage to follow the nurse through the double doors.

 

* * *

 

 "Now, Mrs. Mellark, I'm just going to inject some Polacaine to numb the localized areas. This will reduce pain and bleeding afterward, and prevent any involuntary twitches during the procedure. Wouldn't want to risk anything happening to such an iconic face! After today and your recovery, you will quite literally be dazzling!"

The specialist has been fawning over me and simpering about how spectacular the results will be in between explaining every step he takes. I wish he'd shut up and get on with it. He's finally mentioned Polacaine. A man who introduced himself as the anesthesiologist is lowering a mask with tubes over my mouth, but my eyes can't leave the syringe held in the specialist's hands. I wish he'd start, I want to know if he'll use a lot or a little, but it looks like he's waiting until I'm unconscious. Apparently he doesn't think a girl who survived the Hunger Games can handle a little needlestick. I almost want to laugh, thinking of this morning, standing in front of the mirror and sinking a needle into my face repeatedly. The anesthesiologist starts counting backward, and the last thing I see is the syringe full of salvation slowly lowering toward me.


	4. Tabula Rasa

* * *

The next thing I know, everything is too bright, too blurry, and I feel woozy. I'm totally confused. It looks like I'm in a hospital bed. How did I get here? I can't feel anything, and I don't have much energy. Despite the confusion about my circumstances, I'm surprised to see Effie Trinket here, sitting at my side.

I manage to move my head in her direction, but realize half my sight is obscured. I try to open my other eye, squint, anything, but nothing happens. At least I think nothing happens. My entire face is numb, so for all I know, the muscles responded. The knowledge of why I'm in a medical setting floods back to me, and I panic that the remake was completed. I manage to move my hand up to my face, terrified my fingers will meet cold, hard diamond, but instead, they meet skin. It just doesn't feel like _my_ skin, because I've never touched my face without also feeling the answering sensation in my flesh. It feels like I'm touching something that's just died, still warm but completely pliable. My fingers move up to the eye in question, where they bump into tape covering the entire area.

I start to say 'what' but it comes out as a raspy, slurred "Hwaah."

Effie flashes me what she thinks is a sympathetic smile, the one where she blinks furiously and stretches her lips too far over her teeth in that fluttery, pained way of hers. I can't be sure if she's about to cry or crush me to her, spouting something like, 'What a precious, poor thing!' Or both, ugh. I just need her to tell me what's happened, as I don't see any mirrors available.

"Oh, Katniss, you poor, poor dear! It's simply _too_ awful! After suffering so much in District Twelve, winning the Games and finally making it here, only to have _this_ happen to you! Oh! It's too dreadful!"

I guess it worked. I just don't know how much or what will happen to me. If it's something that they can fix, this has all been for nothing.

"Of course they asked me to be here to comfort you when you awoke!" I want to snort at the ludicrous idea that Effie could provide comfort, or be anything but an annoyance, but I'm not sure I have adequate control over my nasal cavities to snort properly yet, and it would be bad manners. I don't want to provoke her into a lecture.

I look at her more closely with my one eye, and see her glance away uncomfortably. I think I can see her battling an expression of disgust as she stares at the floor. It's a good sign. I'm sure seeing myself will be an unpleasant shock, but horrifying and unsettling Effie, forcing her out of her carefully constructed Capitol comfort zone, is the first thing that has made me want to smile since waking up. She's obviously repelled by me, and I delight in it, just like I did on the tribute train, when I purposely ate with my fingers to unsettle her.

Nevertheless, she begins to weep with all that's been lost: so many appearances, photo shoots, modeling opportunities, even movie deals, who knows? "And all the attention from the press," she wails. According to her, the muscle and nerve damage is too extensive for an attempt at corrective plastic surgery to get me "camera-ready again, or even to beauty base zero!" It feels like a parachute has dropped into my lap, and I've been given an unimaginable gift. I can't completely wrap my mind around it until I know I've truly escaped.

"And oh, we're all losing our star-crossed lovers! Whatever will we do now?" At this, my heart sinks. I guess they really will keep Peeta away from me. And how typical of Effie and the Capitol, to view Peeta and I as something they own, and to be thinking of where they'll find entertainment next when something goes wrong for a public figure.

Effie glances at her tiny, delicate wrist watch and her tears rapidly dry up. "My, my, look at the time! We _must_ be on our way! The doctors predicted you'd wake much earlier, and President Snow prefers you to be on the first possible private train car out of the Capitol. Now, I've been told there may be some pain and clumsiness moving you so soon, but we all think your recovery would progress much better in a facility that's equipped to deal with your sort of…malady."

As Effie attempts to help me out of the bed, she blathers on, doing a terrible job assisting me since she's only attentive to what she is saying. "President Snow thought that since I've been your escort and guide to the Games and the Capitol for all this time, it would be nice for you to have me as an escort to your new life. Isn't that sweet? I'll bet our President is just as heartbroken as I am that you're no longer...er, that Capitol life won't suit you anymore."

When I'm finally steady on my feet, Effie hands me some hospital garb, a plain shirt and pair of pants to replace the backless robe I'd woken in. Then she helps me into a long coat and tucks my braid inside.

"Of course you'll be allowed to take your own clothes and personal possessions with you. Peeta packed several bags for you to take." My heart lifts at her words. Will Peeta be allowed to come with me? Or at least see me off?

"A Peacekeeper brought them 'round to the hospital a couple of hours ago. I'll just have them sent to the train station," she continues blithely.

I should have known such hopes were foolish. I wish I could protest that Peeta should stay with me, but I can't even begin to form the words with my uncooperative lips.

Next she produces some sort of black gauzy fabric, and she reaches up to arrange it around my head. "Veils are all the rage, so elegant and mysterious, don't you think?" She fiddles with it, trying to secure it as tightly as possible. I think she'd staple it to my forehead if she could.

I can't believe she's trying to pretend this is about fashion and not about secrecy and appearances. It's even more ridiculous that she's trying to get me to play along. Back before the Games, I'd proven time and again that I wasn't willing to dress up reality with fake smiles and pretty manners like she did. I guess that since I've played Snow's game so far, I've looked more complacent, more docile, and she thinks I'm willing shut my eyes against the truth and lie like her. It's just another reason why I have to get out of here. And now I will.

She moves her hands down the length of the material to smooth it out and ensure it's covering my face adequately. Her hand must brush some part of my numbed face, because she snatches her hand back as if burned with a little squeak of distress. I will not miss this place or its people.

She grasps my upper arm, a little too hard, which is surprising for Effie. Maybe she expects me to bolt or resist, as if I'd ever fight to stay in the Capitol. She briskly leads me down several corridors and narrow back staircases until we exit an unmarked door into an alleyway. A car with tinted glass awaits, idling by the curb. She all but shoves me inside once the door has opened, and then primly scoots in next to me.

 

* * *

 

 I'm actually thankful for the veil on the way to the train station, as I can't control my face and it's possible Snow could detect the truth of my actions without my control. He sits across from me, glaring through slitted eyes, snakelike.

"Mrs. Mellark, I wish I could say it was good to see you. I suppose, under the circumstances, I can only say how good it is _not_ to see you." He pauses to idly adjust the pale rose pinned on his lapel. "I am not pleased with what has happened here. You were useful to me, and I believe you could have become a lucrative asset, but now that is all ruined." The car turns a corner, but I'm too riveted by his words to try and see where we are, waiting instead to find out if he suspects duplicity.

"Your presence is an embarrassment, as you now serve as a reminder of the existence of my detractors," he snarls. "I can only be grateful that it did not happen to someone more valuable. Or to the boy. Of the two of you, I can spare your sullen unpleasantness far more easily than I can spare his ability to win favor for me with his words."

Guilt wracks me. I've left Peeta to the wolves.

"While I've never been entirely convinced that you've adopted the Capitol's ways and accepted our dominion, your actions since we spoke last have given me no reason to suspect deception. Regardless, you will spend your days in a Capitol facility, far removed from our beautiful city, but always under our watchful eye."

I hold my breath in fear of giving something away, and the stale, cloying smell of roses that permeates the car tastes acrid on my tongue.

"I find it amusing that the rebels, rebels whose sentiments you may once have shared, are the ones to do this to you." His puffy, crimson lips curl into a smirk. "I guess seeing you, the first person in decades with the potential to stir up discontent among the masses, become a Capitol starlet would rub some of them the wrong way."

Snow's attention snaps back to me from his personal musings. "You will be presented as a tragic martyr who sacrificed love and beauty when vicious insurgents shattered the safe idyll in which you lived, in the latest attempt to overthrow a generous and benign leader. As such, you must be treated as one of my faithful, so to the Refuge you go. You will be afforded ample medical care and comfortable accommodations."

"I could have arranged a false death for you, or perhaps a real one, but I think our citizens will be more upset with the rebels knowing that you've been made a permanent eyesore, when you could otherwise be with your beloved husband. If you'd simply died, still beautiful in their minds, they'd have a romantic tragedy to swoon over, and that gets me nowhere. There's not enough anger. Knowing that you're out there somewhere, wasted and unsuitable for the man that would otherwise love you, will rankle. They'll feel dissatisfied, and they'll blame the resistance for ruining their fairytale."

For a moment, I wonder why he'd bother telling me his plans, as my powerless awareness brings him no advantage. Then I realize he's gloating. Snow wants me to know that no matter what has happened, everything will still play right into his hands.

I glance in Effie's direction with my good eye, wondering what my escort's reaction is to the knowledge that Snow would consider killing a victor for convenience's sake. She gazes nonchalantly out the car window at the brightly colored pedestrians. She seems hollow and unmoving, like a windup doll waiting to be wound. I wonder how often she's heard conversations of this nature, and where she manages to compartmentalize them in that poufed head of hers.

"Other patients are allowed to contact their families and loved ones, but you will not be able to do so. I don't need anything agitating Twelve, and we can't have Mr. Mellark distracted by you and your separation when I want him extolling the virtues of our way of life."

This is a blow. I had hoped to communicate with Peeta and my loved ones in Twelve.

When the car stops moments later, Snow gives his parting words with a cruel smile. "Goodbye Mrs. Mellark. I must express my surprise at such a subdued, disappointing end for a girl who seemed so full of fire."

After we exit the car, Effie tells me that once I'm in my private train car, an Avox will attend me, but I am not to exit it for any reason until I reach my destination. She brings me to an attendant and directs the loading of my luggage. Her parting can't come too soon.

"Goodbye darling, and don't forget how lucky you were to enjoy the marvels of the Capitol, even though it was just for a little while!"

 

* * *

 

 The first time I see my face, it's in the bathroom of my train car. My sound of distress comes out as a gurgle, since I still can't move my face properly. My mouth is contorted into a twisted leer, and as a result, my nose looks crooked and my cheeks swell at odd angles from each other. The muscles on one side of my face are completely relaxed, causing all my features to sag lower than the other side. The eyelids of my good eye droop heavily down, the top one making me look drowsy, the bottom showing the raw pink flesh beneath my eye. My eyebrows are scrunched into an almost comically perplexed expression, completely at odds with my sneering lips.

They must have begun the procedure at my forehead before the Petrox's presence became apparent, because there are several lacerations across it: deep, precise, and straight. And while the cut marks are smooth, the edges of skin around them have become ragged and uneven, perhaps my forehead was contorting when the effects of the chemical cocktail fully set in. Either way, something must have been put on it in the Capitol, as it's already scarring over into rough, discolored, uneven skin. I peel away some of the tape covering my other eye and see that the lid's been taped shut. I don't disturb it further, not wanting to do damage.

I clamp my one functioning eye shut and turn, shuffling out of the tiny bathroom. I should be elated, I've succeeded in escaping President Snow's clutches and even though I'm a victor, I'll likely never have to mentor again. Such a thing is unheard of.

But I'm too tired to dredge up any positive emotion. I collapse on the little travel bed in the compartment, feeling sad and profoundly alone. I'm completely on my own now, in a way I never have been before. Even in the Games, I had someone I recognized to share it with. Now there's no one. And with my new face, I bet the people running the Refuge will draw away from me in a way I've never experienced before. Well, good. I don't want their company anyway. Only Prim, Peeta or Gale. Maybe my Mother and Madge. Or even Haymitch. I breathe a sigh out through my nose, and try to sleep, speeding toward an unfamiliar destination on a Capitol train once again.


	5. Beholders

* * *

I was correct in thinking the people here would shrink from me. Even though they're doctors, nurses and therapists trained to deal with disfigured patients, they're still Capitol, through and through. Unfortunately, the patients here aren't really encouraged to converse. We're all kept separate, though we see each other in the hallways and on the grounds in passing from time to time. I wouldn't have much to say even if conditions were otherwise. I have always been solitary and jealously guarded my privacy, but I imagine many here find the isolation stifling.

I'm terrified in the first few days when the numbness doesn't wear off and I don't regain control of my face. I'm told I have facial nerve and muscle paresis, which is a partial paralysis. In addition to my altered appearance, I can't talk properly, or move my lips or tongue to eat on my own. I can't even always keep the saliva in my mouth, having poor control over whether my lips stayed closed. Though I haven't sung in years, except to Rue, I suddenly want to, desperately. I miss my father terribly, along with everyone else. My mouth just can't form the words. Humming is the best I can manage.

My eye was taped because it won't blink properly, and sometime during the procedure, after the doctors realized something was wrong, my eyes opened and in in the frantic shuffle to try to stop the muscle contractions and inevitable contortion of my face, my cornea got scratched.

These are all side effects I didn't expect, though perhaps I should have anticipated them. Being able to take care of myself is of crucial importance to me, and needing help to eat and reminders to hydrate my unblinking eye are blows to my pride.

There is also endless therapy to recover muscle control of my face, in the hopes of retraining myself to form facial expressions once the damaged nerves heal. That, at least, seems to be progressing, as I feel sporadic waves of tingling heat sweep my face as sensation slowly returns.

Increased function has been slow going at best, and finally being able to close my once paralyzed eyelid without tape holding it down will be quite a triumph.

There is speech therapy too. Once I gain control of my tongue and lips enough to eat by myself, I'm hoping to work on forming words again, instead of communicating in affirmative or negative grunts. It just takes muscle strength, functioning nerves, and learning how to form words around the new and admittedly peculiar shape of my mouth.

Not that there's much point, as there's no one here I'd want to talk to. The only thing that's motivated me to try are Peeta's letters.

When I arrived in my quarters, my luggage had already been left for me. The only possessions I'd want were left in Twelve, and I certainly didn't care about the clothes and fripperies I'd picked up in the Capitol. I couldn't imagine why I would need three suitcases of outfits.

Two, as it turned out, had clothes and personal possessions for daily living. The third, however, was filled with nothing but letters and one loose piece of paper. There had to be at least three hundred envelopes, and each one was marked with a season and year.

I picked up the single paper, and recognized Peeta's scrawl.

_Katniss,_

_This was the best way I could think of to stay with you, as you do with me. Each letter is for one season of our future lives. I've written one thing I love and miss about you, that I'll never forget. I've also written one memory I have, whether it be time we spent together, memories from my childhood, or things I remember about District Twelve. I have a list of each letter with me, and when you read them, know that I'm sharing those thoughts with you all season, and focusing especially on the aspect of you in the letter that I so loved. I'm sorry there's not much to read in each missive, there was little time for writing._

_Always,  
_ _Peeta_

He must have worked on them after I'd decided to go through with his plan, when I was sleeping, or wanted time alone, or when I was out keeping up appearances in the boutiques of the Capitol. I counted them up, there were enough to last me until I was well into my nineties. I snatched up the first one, and greedily tore it open. There were only a few lines, and I was disappointed there couldn't be more to sustain me, but they were precious and unexpected and would have to be enough. I was amazed that he'd managed to write so many, short as they were.

A few sentences every three months is a very stingy regimen to maintain, and when I feel myself weakening, or desperately need him near me, I pick up a letter planned for my eighties or nineties. I figure I won't remember reading those exact words by then, and I drink in Peeta's splendid prose like Haymitch would white liquor after a particularly long dry spell. Each missive closes with the same assurance:

 _Always,  
_ _Peeta_

Although I don't quite know why, these words in particular never fail to choke me up.

The few lines are so beautiful, each time I read a letter, I desperately hope that he's not being made to use those words for Snow's benefit. The people here won't allow me to watch any of the news feeds from the Capitol, as they think seeing its splendor and 'gorgeous' citizens will remind me of what I've lost and set back my recovery. The only things I care about seeing are updates on what Peeta's been up to. Any other footage would just remind me how lucky I was to escape the world where spectacle and self-indulgence disguise exploitation and oppression.

Since I'm not technically sending or receiving letters, no one seems to care and none have been taken from me. Things are a little more relaxed all the way out here, on the last western stop of the Capitol train. This facility is the only structure for miles, and no one here poses a threat to the Capitol, quite the opposite. The attitude toward image, however, is still the same.

I've been assigned a personal caretaker recently, and he's a fool. He prefers people use only his first name, Hercutio, though I can't imagine why. He's definitely Capitol material - puce skin, spiky coral hair, and sea-green teeth. He wears all sorts of metallic bands down his arms, probably to emphasize the muscles he flexes every time a nurse strolls by my rooms. Every day, he does his best to never once look at my face. He talks in my direction, but not to me, and everything he says is completely patronizing, as if I'm not quite a person.

Based on the comments he makes to anyone who will listen, he thinks he's better and smarter than everyone in the facility, everyone in the Capitol, really. He constantly talks about his plans to 'show everyone' and assures every female employee that he's going to be hugely important someday. It gets really annoying day in and out. I wish I could tell him exactly how unimportant we all are to the Capitol, but there are undoubtedly listening devices everywhere. I can't talk yet anyways. And while I still can't move my brows, I can certainly roll my eyes, which will have to suffice.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time I'm coherently speaking simple sentences, and can sort of smile, I'm allowed to have a television in my room. They had to put one in for this year's Games, so they pretended I'd reached some sort of milestone where a clip of the Capitol and its picture-perfect citizens wouldn't send me into a suicidal rage. Hah.

Actually, I think I'm okay with my face. The geniuses who thought I couldn't handle a Capitol beauty product commercial thought I'd have no problem with a mirror, so I've had one in the bathroom since the first day. I actually look into it more now than I ever did before my 'botched' remake, to check my progress.

Most times, I practice exaggerated expressions in front of it, exercising the muscles around my mouth, cheeks, eyes and forehead. I still can't move my eyebrows at all.

Sometimes though, I just study my reflection. I don't like my face, but I certainly don't hate it. It's something I chose, of my own volition, and I'm proud of it in a way. It saved me. _I_ saved me. I escaped the Capitol and eluded Snow's intended purpose for me. No one close to me lost their life. I've hurt no one physically except myself, and I'm working to recover the lost movement. While I have hurt Peeta and myself emotionally, I know it's far preferable to the physical, emotional and mental torture that awaited me as a Capitol sex slave.

I'll never be pretty again, but that was always one of the least important things to me anyway. I've always had bigger, more pressing concerns. And I'm from Twelve. Life isn't picturesque. It's real. I haven't forgotten that.

Many of my father's old friends, also caught in the mine explosion, have painful looking scars and burns all over their body. Haymitch looks like death warmed over. Ripper is missing an arm, and Sae hardly has any teeth left. Even Lady has hair missing where the jagged scar winds over her shoulder, and Buttercup looks like he clawed his way out of a grave. Peeta, who now seems to me one of the most beautiful people to grace Twelve, besides Prim and maybe Gale, is missing his leg. None of that matters.

What matters is those men managed to survive. They were my father's friends and like me, they still miss him. Haymitch won a Quell and is struggling along as best he can, despite everything. Ripper runs a business, literally single-handed. Sae's cooking warms the bellies of the Seam, and Lady is a wonderful, useful pet. Buttercup makes Prim happy. And Peeta is precious to me.

I'm still myself, Katniss Everdeen, for better or for worse. My body and my mind are my own. And once I've mastered its muscles, my face will be my own too.

While the 76th Hunger Games are on, I practice my singing to drown it out. When I was unable to speak, I practiced single notes and scales. Now that I can say simple words, I sing a lot of silly childhood songs. My vocal cords didn't suffer any damage, my problem singing was just inability to control the movement of my tongue and lips the way I wanted for the lyrics.

Hercutio seems to resent each little song, and I don't know if he dislikes that they lift my spirits, the feel of Twelve they bring, or the fact that I'm distracting him from the Games footage. After he grows tired of ridiculing the melodies of my childhood, he eventually comes up with a little rhyme of his own, based on what he remembers learning about me from my Games, and puts it to one of the tunes I sometimes sing:

 _The mockingjays mock her,_  
 _then away they fly._  
 _The primroses close_  
 _as she walks by._  
 _The nanny goat bleats_  
 _a hasty warning cry:_  
 _She'll turn you to stone  
_ _with a look in her eye!_

He cackles uproariously each time he finishes the little ditty. It seems unnecessarily cruel, this taunt about my appearance, and I often wonder why he should dislike me so specifically and vehemently. In the end, I just continue to ignore him. I've survived a Hunger Games and the threat of Snow's wrath. Petty words designed to wound me mean less than nothing.

When Panem has endured the end of yet another Hunger Games, the stations soon switch to coverage of all the Capitol parties that have been taking place. Peeta, of course, is present at all of them. He doesn't really have a choice, he's expected to make an appearance. I reach out for the screen the first time I see him, wishing I could touch him, and Hercutio laughs at me.

"I bet he thinks your remake is the best thing that ever happened to him. Now he can finally enjoy himself in the Capitol the way he's undoubtedly wanted to, without the dreary pall you cast over everything."

Hercutio's assessment of Peeta is laughable, he clearly understands nothing about the boy with the bread. Hercutio and Peeta couldn't be less alike. I just tune him out, making his words sound like the chirping of birds in the forest, until I don't register his presence or whether speaks again.

Seeing Peeta again is glorious and awful at the same time. It makes me miss him so much it physically hurts. Any time a reporter asks him a question, he pauses and stares intently into the camera for a moment before launching into the perfect response to delight his fans. I know he's staring out at me, in his mind, and my breath catches as I stare back. He's probably been doing this since I left.

When cameras are further away, catching snippets of his daily life from afar, or documenting his arrivals and departures from various functions, he always makes a point to blow a kiss to the camera - District Twelve fashion, just for me. Apparently, it's a 'thing' now, it's been labeled his trademark and has even caught on among his fans. When I see a young nurse blow her friend a three-fingered kiss as she leaves the for the Capitol, workweek completed, I don't know whether to smile or frown at the little piece of Twelve pervading the Capitol, its meaning perverted along the way.

Time passes uneventfully. My speech is much improved. My eyebrows remain unresponsive, and their perpetual look of worry continues to clash with my uneven grimace. But once familiar with that, you can learn to interpret distinct expressions on my face to read my mood. I'm satisfied with my progress.

Hercutio often pretends he doesn't understand my words and purposefully misinterprets my facial expressions at every opportunity. His inane attempts to tear me down are an annoyance to be sure, but they're so ineffective I'm almost disappointed for him.

By now, he's grown tired of puce, coral, and sea green. He resembles the sick a toddler makes when it decides to discover what each crayon color tastes like. I'm delighted to find that my hard work in speech therapy has enabled me to tell him so. He merely scoffs, and starts describing that he's going for 'classy' this time. Classy, in his mind, is hairless and silver, from head to toe, with lemon yellow eyes like beacons. It sounds to me like he's trying to turn into a hovercraft. Hercutio doesn't like that little observation either.

Now that I can talk, we don't exactly get along. At all. It's only served to make him more anxious for the 'big things' he knows he's meant to accomplish. He increasingly hates his job by my side, and doesn't mind telling me, not that I care. I think it's a failed attempt to hurt my feelings.

I don't actually require his presence here, either. As the need for intensive therapy has lessened, he's taken over most of it from the doctors, who have new patients to work with. I'm interested to see an increase in the influx of patients here. Perhaps discontented Capitol citizens have grown in both number and boldness. Hercutio manages my medication and accompanies me everywhere, should I need assistance with something. There's nothing he does that I cannot do for myself, and I'm hoping that as soon as he gets around to finally finding a job he'd rather have, I can convince the doctors I don't need around the clock assistance from someone new. As Snow's fallen golden girl and tragic victim of his enemies, a Capitol citizen to assist me and provide 'companionship' has been provided as a luxury. I wish they would spare me.

Since his brilliant idea for another remake dawned on him, it's all Hercutio's been able talk about. Again, I think he's trying to bother me, babbling about how wonderful his remake will be to someone who supposedly had her life ruined during her own. He has no idea how I really feel about the results of the procedure, and he doesn't understand that it's impossible for someone's words to hurt me when I have no respect for them. What I am upset about is that this stupid remake might distract him from his plans of finding somewhere more important to be. He's leaving for a vacation period in a week, and I'm hoping he'll find something while he's gone and never return. Wouldn't that be a treat?

 

* * *

 

 

When he's finally gone for his break, I let myself do things I wouldn't normally do in his presence. I talk to myself in different voices, acting out conversations I've had in my head with different people. It's lonely here, and sometimes I like to sit and imagine what Prim, Peeta, Gale, Cinna, or even Haymitch might say about things. I sing the songs my father loved, far too personal to share with someone so meaningless, not that Hercutio would appreciate them. At night, I let myself weep with relief at the horror I've been spared, trying not to imagine where I could be in the Capitol otherwise. I also go into the bathroom, disrobe, and look at my body.

I'm happy with it, all told. My braid is even longer, and my olive skin tone is fairly even, except for the discoloration and scarring on my forehead. After the procedure, they must not have thought I was worth receiving the scar buffing process they gave me after my Games.

My cornea has long since healed. Both my eyelids droop unevenly, making them harder to see, but my eyes are still Seam gray. Strengthening the damaged muscles has helped the sagging of half my face somewhat, but my features are largely unchanged from my first perusal of them on the train. I continue on to examine the rest of my body.

Finnick warned me of the danger through Peeta, helping me avoid becoming a hollowed-out doll like him. Johanna gave me the tool to escape, at Peeta's request, letting me avoid becoming a hardened stone like her. Peeta supplied the idea, the connections, and the courage. Seeing how he continued to thrive and give so much of himself after suffering a grave permanent injury reinforced the belief that I could get through such a thing as well. And I took the plunge, suffered the consequences, and fought to make the most of the result.

My hand glides slowly down my face and body as I experience sensuality on my terms. I touch every part of me, appreciating the efforts made and risk taken to ensure it would stay mine. I watch my nipples pebble and I shiver, relishing the trail of goose bumps that rise in the wake of my trailing fingers. With care and anticipation, I touch the tender flesh at the juncture of my legs and call to Peeta's memory behind my eyes.


	6. Frosting

* * *

Hercutio's back, but there's something wrong with him. Besides being bald and silver, I mean. He's subdued, observant. Obedient and respectful in his dealings with others. It makes him seem almost intelligent, which I know to be untrue, unless his ridiculous remake included a lobotomy.

Others passing on their way elsewhere notice and ask him what's wrong, but he just gruffly mumbles that he's disappointed with his remake. I fight the cruel smile that threatens to further twist my lips, I really do. Everyone accepts this as an understandable blow to his self confidence and moves on with their day. When he finally approaches me, he is oddly silent, save for the heavy footfalls undoubtedly intended to catch my attention. I'm stretched out on my bed reading, leaning against the headboard, and he pulls a chair over, far closer than he'd willingly come before.

I wonder if perhaps he foolishly thinks he can empathize with me, now that he doesn't like his own looks. Everything he's done is fixable once an appropriate amount of time has elapsed. I don't know what all the fuss is about. I can only be glad that I spared some poor patient who was blindsided by their disfigurement the pain of dealing with Hercutio's insensitivity.

When he sits and fails to speak, I roll my eyes and look up from my reading expectantly. He's looking straight at me. I pause, unsettled. Hercutio _never_ looks directly at me. His eyes are indeed a garish yellow, and it looks like he's had some plastic surgery done, his features are subtly different.

He reaches out his silver hand and takes my own. He's never touched me before. Something is seriously wrong here, and I'm on instant alert. He draws my hand in his direction, and I don't immediately fight it, perplexed about his intentions, until I realize that it's headed for his lower body.

No. _No_. I didn't live in terror, disfigure myself, and give up Peeta to be taken advantage of here. I start thrashing, prepared to raise hell if this goes any further, but our hands quickly move to rest on his left leg, just above his knee. I stop, thinking he's wisely given up, before I register the firmness beneath my hand. There's no give, it feels like my hand is resting on a hard surface, not supple flesh.

It doesn't feel real.

I slowly look up into the lemon irises regarding me. The shape of his eyes look similar to Hercutio's, but the gentleness within them is nothing like him. My mouth drops open slightly as wild hope surges through my chest.

As ever, his efforts are the final word in camouflage.

His lips stretch into a slow, warm smile as he watches the realization set in on my face. He turns our hands on his knee, twining our fingers. I grip them tighter. Now that he's here, miraculously, impossibly, I know I can never let him go again. "Stay," I say.

"Always," Peeta replies, and I recognize the timbre of his unchanged voice. I delight in the audible repetition of his closing words from my letters.

I realize this must be the first time he's seeing the effects of our ploy, but the momentary worry of what he must think is swept away when I see total acceptance and total adoration in his eyes. He repeats the actions of that night so long ago, tracing his fingers gently across my forehead, down around my cheeks to my lips. He has to move his fingers differently to trace their new shape, but he looks happy to do so, and continues down the line of my crooked nose before stroking my eyebrows and eyelids.

I have endless questions to ask him, how this is all possible, how much danger he's put himself in to be here, and even where Hercutio is, not that I particularly care. It will have to wait. I often take walks around the grounds at dusk; we can talk then. Peeta's restraint indicates his awareness of the constant presence of Capitol surveillance.

To help him through his new occupation without making his unfamiliarity obvious, I make imperious demands of him that illustrate what function Hercutio played. Everything Hercutio would insist I do - take meals in the cafeteria or check in with various nurses, I whine about doing roughly ten minutes before we're anticpated to arrive so he knows what to expect. When Peeta's not being a convincing enough imbecile, which is often, I complain loudly to 'Hercutio' about the aspects of his personality that I hate most, communicating to Peeta what he needs to emulate. The rest of the day, we trade giddy smiles, covert glances, and heated stares.

...

When evening finally arrives, I lead Peeta out onto the grounds to watch the sunset. Hercutio usually hangs back, attention on his personal communication device, but Peeta is right beside me, content in my presence.

I whisper to him, "Well?"

He instantly smiles and I notice he hasn't lost his dimples in spite of his cosmetic surgery.

"It's actually pretty simple. Remember Plutarch Heavensbee, the Gamemaker?"

I do, and I want to raise my brows in disbelief that he's played some role in Peeta's appearance, but they don't move. "Yes," I hedge instead.

"Well, he always seemed like he was trying to get at something when he spoke to me after our Victory Tour. It turns out, he's a major player in the resistance. Apparently, there are lots of people who want to escape the Capitol and Snow. The only place to go is District Thirteen, which apparently still exists."

I'm blown away by this news, but Peeta's already continuing his story.

"He helps people escape to the district, which is underground. They used to have to run on their own, but now there's a support system with hovercrafts to aid them."

I think back to the girl and boy in the forest of Twelve, running from the Capitol, and I feel like I finally know where they were running to. I always wondered why they'd want to come to Twelve of all places. After my brief lapse of attention, I'm quickly drawn back into his story.

"Plutarch's got a son who thinks that just because his father's involved in the resistance, he's going to be the future prince of Panem or something equally ridiculous when Snow is overthrown in the coming rebellion. He won't keep quiet about it though, apparently he spouts off to anyone who will listen about how important he'll be and how much smarter he is than Snow or the rest of the Capitol!"

Peeta looks at me incredulously, as if asking whether I can believe such an idiot exists. Oh, I can. His father must have told him not to use his last name, for fear of association with the biggest loudmouth in Panem. Hercutio Heavensbee's idiocy could easily cause the death of his father.

"So Plutarch used his influence to send him here, a place far removed from the Capitol, where, despite the presence of monitoring devices, Snow's surveillance has slackened. He sees everyone here as an invalid patient or medical professional, certainly not potential revolutionaries."

Peeta smiles at his next words.

"I'm pretty sure he wanted you to rub off on his son, as someone who not only knows how to kindle the beginnings of a rebellion and thwart the Capitol, but also knows how to stay quiet about it. Plutarch admires you greatly, you know," Peeta added.

I snort at the thought. "No wonder Hercutio hated me. He could probably tell his father thinks he's a liability, and didn't like that I had Plutarch's respect."

"Unfortunately for Plutarch, apparently you _didn't_ rub off on Hercutio. He was so worried about his son's safety, he removed him from the Capitol altogether. Plutarch didn't want anyone to notice Hercutio was gone and start searching for his whereabouts, because if he was found before he reached Thirteen, he would be killed, Plutarch would be exposed, and the disappearance of your attendant would put you in a bad light. So he needed someone to stand in as Hercutio, and correctly assumed that I'd do anything for the chance to be with you."

I want to embrace him so badly, but we can't risk it. I was shocked when I thought Hercutio had touched my hand, because he never had before, not voluntarily. Luckily, our contact earlier today, with Peeta touching my face, could be explained as some sort of diagnostic test for returning sensation, if anyone questioned it. Anything but the most fleeting contact between Peeta and I will be noticed, and I can't put him in danger.

"All Hercutio had to do was schedule a bogus remake, with a doctor sympathetic to the resistance, and then he was off to Thirteen to be a part of the rebellion."

I guess I'm happy for him. He's doing 'bigger things' now, but I doubt he understands the danger that goes with it.

"I had to find a way to get to Hercutio's appointment unseen," Peeta continues. That's easier said than done, considering his every move was watched by the press.

"I shaved my head, since that was part of Hercutio's remake anyways, and I'd be a lot less recognizable without my hair. Then I painted a bunch of tattoos all over my face, head, arms, anywhere visible really. Portia gave me some colored contacts and fake fangs, and a ridiculously garish getup, and no one recognized me when I walked out the ground level door of our high-rise." He shrugs, as if he hardly believes it himself.

"The beauty of the remake process is that if everyone can change their entire appearance at will easily and regularly, there's nothing stopping you from just becoming someone else, as long no one knows you're having something done, no one involved in the procedure talks, and you have a place waiting for you when you come out. There's no record I was ever slated for a procedure, just Hercutio. No facial recognition technology would identify me after the plastic surgery, and the doctor even removed and destroyed the old tracker from my arm. As long as I'm not forced to take any DNA tests and no one sees beneath my pant leg, I've disappeared forever."

And he has. It's hard to even describe the frantic confusion apparent on all the broadcasts. We're not the newest victors, we haven't been for two years, but he's still the most beloved in my absence. No one can figure out how the most watched victor in the Capitol fell off the face of the earth overnight. Snow must be beside himself, I think with glee. I'm questioned, but foolishly, Snow has sent someone else to do it, as he hasn't seen me as a threat for a long time. The high ranking Peacekeeper who questions me can't tell when I'm lying like Snow can. And despite my being a terrible liar, my limited range of facial movement helps disguise my deception. The alteration to my face has saved my life once again, and now it's helped Peeta too. Since there is no record of the true Hercutio's disappearance, no one thinks to question the man at my side, as he appears to be exactly who he ought to be. After only two days of making inquiries, the Peacekeeper leaves, passing Peeta in the hallway on the way out

Life is so different now. I feel very little fear or apprehension here, and I'm mostly happy with Peeta at my side. I still can't communicate with Prim or my Mother. Peeta could, as Hercutio, but it would be too suspicious if it was found out. I know they're alive and safe. In Panem, that's more than a lot of people can expect, so I'll have to be content with that.

The hardest thing is maintaining distance and a feigned disinterest in Peeta. People here believe that Hercutio has grown into a more mature individual and that we've become more friendly, but it can only be to a believable extent. We still can't touch in any obvious way, and we can only really talk for a half hour's walk at sunset. But considering our past separation, even this limited time is an indescribably luxury.

When learning the daily therapy methods from me, Peeta quickly discerns that we need to make him irreplaceable to my health, and I start complaining of recurrent pain and tics that subside with our therapy but never fully disappear. He establishes himself as a capable caretaker, uniquely skilled at relieving my concocted facial pain. We've learned not to leave things to chance or grow complacent. Anything could change at a moment's notice . This is still Panem.

 

* * *

 

 

Then, one winter day, Effie is standing before me- tears of joy in her eyes, and a sparkling smile quickly covering the moue of distaste at the sight of me.

"Why Katniss my dear, how I've missed you!"

"Effie" I acknowledge, proud, as I often am, of my hard-won articulation. Peeta stands at my side, waiting apprehensively for her to somehow recognize him. She won't. Effie sees what she wants to see, the ride in Snow's town car taught me that. I introduce her to 'Hercutio' and she graciously bobs her head in greeting before turning back to me.

"How I've longed to come and visit you all these years! It's been quite impossible, I'm afraid. You know how hectic the life of a District Escort is!"

I don't, actually. I thought the Escorts were the ones that made other people's lives hectic.

"What are you here for?"

"Why to visit of course!" When that gets no response, she adds, "And to escort you back to District Twelve."

That's news. "Why?" I ask suspiciously.

"Katniss, darling, it's Haymitch. He's died." she says softly. "How could you not know?"

I don't know because no one bothered to report it on the stupid Capitol news stations. Haymitch is generally seen as an embarrassment to the Capitol because of his alcoholism, and there haven't been any victors in Twelve since the 74th Games. After my sequestration and Peeta's disappearing act, I imagine he was seen as an utter failure.

Peeta is visibly shaken, but Effie is too obtuse to notice that my attendant mourns the death of Twelve's mentor. She's bustling about as she natters on, rearranging books and swiping furniture ledges, inspecting them for dust.

"You're expected to replace him, of course, as the last remaining victor from Twelve. Snow would never ask this of you if those barbaric rebels hadn't killed Peeta" she bemoans, sniffling.

It was inevitable that Peeta's disappearance was eventually blamed on the growing resistance, but rumors that he escaped to Thirteen, which has now become a folk legend of a district, ran so rampant that I even hear nurses whispering about it here. The three-fingered air kiss has become a tribute to him as well. Now it's a symbol of solidarity and goodbye again, a farewell to a person's presence but not their memory. The unwitting return to its original meaning was inspired by Peeta's disappearance from Panem's sight but not its mind. He is often talked of, thought of. I've seen nurses tearfully blowing each other the kiss when one is leaving permanently. Gone but not forgotten.

I collect my suitcases, grieving the loss of Haymitch and thinking of Prim, my mother, and Gale, but before I start packing, I speak. "I'll need Hercutio to accompany me. He dispenses my medication and administers my therapy." I'm older now, and my tone brokers no argument. She'll have to get this approved, or she'll have to bodily drag me from the building.

And just like that, we're going home. On the train ride, I'm consumed with thoughts of Haymitch. I know Peeta feels guilty for leaving him behind to mentor, as do I. But after our Games, we were never given the option to assume the role of mentor. It was thrust upon Haymitch so we could stay in the Capitol.

I think that had he known the full story, he would have forgiven us, been proud even. He'd been so pleased when I shot that apple, flustering the Gamemakers. I think he would have liked the stunts we pulled and tricks we played on Snow. Haymitch did what no other mentor ever managed. He brought twochildren back from the Hunger Games. Two children who were able to escape to relative freedom together, right under the Capitol's nose, all because of him.

I find myself hoping emphatically that he's not really gone, that he's just an new bit of legend, run off to District 13 to help start the rebellion. I suppose I'm just like all the girls speculating over Peeta's whereabouts, unwilling to let him go. And who knows? Peeta is still here, maybe Haymitch really did escape. If he wasn't already involved in the resistance, I feel sure he'd want to be.

Effie makes it clear on our way home that my role as a mentor is their last resort and the veil is to be a permanent fixture at future Reapings and in the Capitol. I say nothing, and focus on seeing Prim. Mentoring will be awful, maybe even worse than the games, but I'll do it to see my sister again.

When we arrive, it's like nothing's changed. People I recognize look older, but the district looks the same. Effie is quick to leave, and I can tell she's not looking forward to coming back in a few months' time. I stuff the veil into my luggage and start towards the Seam from the train station before remembering that I live in Victor's Village.

As Peeta and I make our way there, people stare unabashedly. Everyone seems very curious, but no one talks to us. I've been buffered from this somewhat at the Refuge, but I remind myself that they'd be staring no matter what-we're unfamiliar arrivals, and Peeta is silver, after all.

But my reunion with Prim sweeps everything else away. She's grown so much, but my Little Duck's kind nature and love of life are still there. And after all, keeping her safe, protected, and herself has been the motivation for all I've gone through from the very beginning. All my choices and actions feel justified and worthwhile when I look at her smiling face.

During my first month back, I barely let her out of my sight. She is everything I could wish for her to be, self-possessed, generous, warm, funny, and miraculously upbeat. My only regret is that she's forced to live in a world that does not deserve her yet. It's a long shot, but perhaps in time it can become more worthy of her.

My mother seems much improved, and even suggests taking over as my attendant so we can send Hercutio home. I firmly decline, and I can see Prim and my mother seem uncomfortable with the idea of his constant presence. We'll have to figure out a way to tell them.

Gale works in the mines, and when I see him again, he seems distant. He expresses regret at what happened to my face, and I pretend it still weighs on me. But when I look in his eyes, I see disdain, and it has nothing to do with how my appearance has changed. He sees me as a Capitol pawn, a traitor because I've gone where they wanted and did what they told me. I've been away so long, and have the gall to come back with a Capitol attendant to follow me around like a puppy. I can tell he finds me completely unrecognizable from who I used to be - inside as well as outside.

Strangely, I'm fine with this. He can't know the circumstances that have brought me here and doesn't care to. I could try to explain, in utmost secrecy, exactly what occurred, but I don't feel the need to risk our safety merely to justify my actions. I have no interest in his erroneous summation of me. When I think back on our friendship, his attitude is disappointing, but I am not deeply wounded. Peeta has long been my best friend and more. But perhaps, in time, if he can look past his assumptions, Gale could once again become a hunting partner and friend. I have every intention of utilizing the forest again.

Peeta and I decide that as a Capitol employee, 'Hercutio' would insist on a place of his own in Town, which he purchases with the wages he's saved as my attendant and some of my Victor's winnings, since he no longer has access to his own. It gives us a place to go where we don't have to worry about surveillance, like we do in Victor's Village. I go there daily under the pretense of physical therapy for tics and pains, and if anyone surmises differently from the length of my visits, we don't hear about it. People assume, correctly, that since the rest of Twelve generally avoids us-I'm a victor and he looks Capitol-that we find friendly companionship together.

I suppose that eventually I could publicly acknowledge 'Hercutio' as a romantic interest. To anyone monitoring us in the Capitol, it may not seem completely far-fetched. He's trapped out here, and as a victor, I still have a high social standing. Keeping a continual stream of lovers is completely normal in the Capitol.

Luckily though, that's not something I need to worry about now, and I'm content with the way things are. I'm understandably an intensely private person, and a secret relationship suits me fine. Peeta has always been a much more public person, and I suspect he'll start charming people into warming up to him as Hercutio.

I get Capitol shipments of supplies and bogus medication, but 'Hercutio' has ordered contraceptives. It's unrealistic that any Capitol citizen would remain celibate for long, even in Twelve, so we feel safe having them sent. We'll probably always live separately, but I never wanted to be married anyways.

After he's settled into his Merchant Quarter house, we feel brave enough to pursue what we've been denied for ages one lazy afternoon. It's been so long, it's like we're rediscovering each other's bodies. We both look so different, but together we still ignite and blaze with desire. The heat between us quickly builds to an inferno.

Naked, he sits on the bed with me in his lap, my legs wound around him tightly. For a while, we just keep our embrace, kissing languidly and breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of the other. Peeta traces the line of my spine slowly down until his hands reach the indentations in my lower back. They rest there, his fingers cradling the swells of my buttocks, squeezing when I do something he particularly likes.

Trailing my fingertips lightly up his arms, I map their stunning contours from wrist to shoulder. I nuzzle the spot where his neck meets his jaw, then place small loving kisses all the way to his chin. My fingers follow my lips, the pads grazing along his jawline as I pull away. Peeta's hands tighten around my backside, preventing me from moving too far. He needn't worry, though, I have no intention of leaving his arms.

As I lean back toward him, he tilts his head to receive my kiss. It's not what he expected though, because when I playfully bite his lower lip, holding it between my teeth as I pull away with a little growl, I can feel him gasp, the intake of breath expanding his chest against my pebbling nipples. I'm urging him on, challenging him, and he takes the hint. Grasping my hips in his large hands, he draws me down onto him, stretching me, joining us after so long. I relish the feeling of heavy fullness he gives me.

With Peeta inside me, I am replete. Our foreheads meet and we just look at each other. I smile down at him. Now we're truly home. This is where we belong. He smiles back.

"You're so lovely," he whispers. I give him a sharp pinch. Now is not the time for insincere flattery. He continues anyway as he begins to rock against me with slow, teasing movements. "I have an eye for beauty Katniss, and every time your personality and emotions radiate from you features, how can I see you as anything but resplendent?"

I'm losing my breath already, panting at the feel of him moving even just that little bit inside me, when I realize that it's the same for me.

I know that silver skin and lemon eyes are ridiculous, but somehow, knowing it's Peeta's silver skin I'm touching, Peeta's nerves I'm stimulating, makes me unbearably hungry for this new incarnation of my boy with the bread. I knead the muscles of his back in response, hoping he interprets it as a reciprocation of his sentiment - I'm far too caught up in sensation to form a coherent response.

Before, I truly enjoyed my physical relationship with him, but our calculated romance and forced marriage tainted the connection we shared, making it feel less real to me. Now though, anything fettering my regard for him is gone. Peeta's love is completely welcome to me. I'm not sure when, but sometime long ago I began to share his feelings. I don't have to define or categorize it further. It's beyond all that.

I want to celebrate him, _us_ , in the most emphatic manner possible. I start rolling my hips against him in counterpoint to his minor thrusts, seeking maximum friction where we're joined. This draws a distressed moan from him, and his forehead drops to my shoulder. I squeeze my knees against the sides of his torso to urge him to go faster, and he moves against me deliciously, turning his head to nip and kiss all along my lower neck. Peeta rises into me, I thrash against him, and we both moan in unison. As our movements become more frenetic and intent upon completion, I lean down to whisper my disjointed words of love in his ear.

He jerks against me in reaction, and, growling, pushes me down onto the mattress. His teeth scrape at my shoulder and drag along the line of my clavicle, until his lips find the swells and peaks of my breasts. Desperate sounds issue from my throat. I can no longer tangle my hands in his curls, but I draw his head closer to me and he responds as always, vigorously swirling his tongue around each nipple and suckling until I'm trembling from his efforts. I whimper helplessly and claw at his back and shoulders as he resumes his relentless pace. When we crest in ecstasy, I can't imagine a more blissful state. I'm drained of negative feeling, suffused in contentment.

 

* * *

 

 

At first, Peeta was afraid that if he tried to reveal his identity to his family, someone wouldn't believe him and would instead draw attention to his claim. Finally, Peeta got the courage to ice two cookies, painting a portrait on each in frosting. One showed the youngest Mellark as they knew him, and the other showed him as he is now. Peeta put them in a brown paper bag, which I dropped off when I next had a squirrel for trade. I handed it to his father. He got the message, because he personally delivered a loaf of bread to Peeta's doorstep later that day as a belated 'welcome to Twelve' for Hercutio. Now Peeta goes to the bakery often.

Slowly but surely, the slow burn of discontent around us flares into talk of rebellion. I hunt again. Peeta paints. We grow into our life here. The silver coloration will take years to leach from his body and his scalp has been treated to never again grow hair. I will always get awkward looks and rude stares. We wear shrouds and veils when Snow might be watching, but in our hours together in his home, we are free and ourselves, Katniss and Peeta.

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it folks, my first story. I hope it was enjoyable and remained fairly true to the characters. Comments and constructive criticism would be wildly helpful, as I am a novice fiction writer and have plans to write more Everlark stories in the future.
> 
> I've always been nervous about reception to this fic, in that it deals with some pretty sensitive issues. In no way do I mean to make light of disfigurement or self-harm. My intent with this story is to explore Katniss' fierce determination to remain a free and complete person, and the lengths to which she will go to thwart Snow's attempts to make her otherwise.
> 
> My other aim was to portray Katniss' realistic, unflaggable self-image. Katniss is never fooled by the superficial, and she remains true to herself throughout the books. She never tries to deny the effects her life has taken on her body. Her knowledge and acceptance of herself, flaws included, is something I've always loved about her, and something that I don't think can be emphasized enough to female readers of the series.
> 
> With the painting Les Amants, I wanted to explore how the rejection and exclusion of the unsightly in the Capitol, along with subterfuge and anonymity, could actually benefit Katniss and Peeta, providing an escape route out of the Capitol and the means of staying together. When I look at that painting, I get a sense of well-being and safety arising from the fact that since they are completely unknown to the world, they have disappeared from it. Hopefully that got across in some small way.
> 
> If anyone wants to talk about THG or see my fanart, come visit me on Tumblr: ghtlovesthg
> 
> I would love to talk to you!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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